The 3rd Victim (7 page)

15

T
he Boston Municipal Courthouse was a tall, impressive, white stone structure situated on a triangular block on the corner of New Chardon and Merimac Streets. The building was named for Edward W. Brooke, the first African–American to be elected by popular vote to the US Senate back in 1966.

The courthouse had multiple roles, including the hearing of minor criminal matters not serious enough to warrant incarceration, the holding of probable cause hearings to decide whether or not a matter should be transferred to the more ominous Superior Court, and the settling of disputes relating to the busy Suffolk County Court Division which hears matters relating to juveniles.

In addition to all this, one of the most important responsibilities of this busy, light-soaked building was to play host to the production mill of arraignments, whereby newly arrested individuals, appearing with their newly engaged representation, were formally charged and asked to enter a plea regarding their innocence or guilt. Arraignments were also where the first round of combat between defence counsel and the prosecution took place. The duelling between the two was often vigorous – the subject of contention: bail.

‘Your Honor.’ David got to his feet. The courtroom was packed, not because of this minor matter of assault involving David's teenage client, Walter Booth, who sat wide-eyed and terrified beside him, but because one of the arraignments coming up on the docket was the Commonwealth vs Walker.

‘The Commonwealth has no grounds for denying my client bail,’ David continued, his unresolved argument with Sara still brewing somewhere in the back of his mind. ‘Walter Booth came forward of his own reconnaissance, he admits to assaulting Mr Jackson, but only because Mr Jackson and his fellow gang members entered my client's grandmother's house with intent to rob her after threatening her with a large steel crowbar.’

‘Your Honor,’ countered Assistant District Attorney Amanda Carmichael, a tall, attractive, ambitious prosecutor who David had sparred with before. ‘Mr Jackson suffered a fractured rib and a broken nose as a result of Mr Booth's aggression. Mr Booth may not be in full-time employment but he has the financial backing of his grandmother and, in the Commonwealth's view, should be considered a flight risk.’ Carmichael was obviously playing to the full-to-capacity media gallery, even if they weren't here to see her.

‘My client is in his first year of economics at BU,’ countered David. ‘His grandmother is on social security. He works weekends at the local drug store to help pay for the groceries, he is a good kid, with a clean record and –’

‘All right,’ said the judge, a tall, thin, grey-haired man by the name of Weeks. ‘That was a good try, Ms Carmichael, but I am releasing Mr Booth into the custody of his grandmother.’ The judge turned to face David's grateful client. ‘You understand you have to stick around, young man, until this matter is heard in court exactly …’ Weeks checked his diary, ‘… two weeks from today.’

‘Yes, sir, thank you, Mr Judge, sir,’ said a nervous Walter as he snapped to his feet to reply.

Judge Weeks shuffled some papers aside before telling Walter Booth he was free to go and calling the next case on his docket.

‘I'll see you next week,’ whispered David as Walter shook his hand with vigour.

‘Thanks so much, Mr C.’

‘No problem. You go take your grandmother out for a late breakfast, Walter,’ he said, gesturing toward the old African–American woman squashed in a bench seat at the far back right-hand corner of the courtroom.

Walter nodded as David packed up his things to leave.

‘Must be hard,’ said a voice from behind.

David recognised the smug tone instantly. It was the last person he wanted to see today, or any other day for that matter. ‘What's hard, Roger?’ he answered.

‘You know. All this …’ Katz gestured at the overflowing gallery. ‘The Walker case is going to be huge, Cavanaugh, and you are not going to be part of it.’

David shoved his files into his briefcase, not even tempted to tell this asshole that he'd knocked the case back a mere twenty-four hours ago.

‘You're right,’ said David. ‘I cried over my coffee this morning as I read the details in the
Tribune
.’

‘Never mind – you can continue to read the dailies, which should keep you up to date with my progress. Maybe you'll even learn a thing or two, about how a delicate case such as this should be handled.’

‘Good idea, Roger,’ replied David, his mood darkening by the minute. ‘That means I'll have two things to look forward to first thing in the morning – reading your quotes in the
Tribune
and changing my eighteen-month-old's diapers, whichever piece of shit comes first.’ It wasn't something he'd normally say, but today, hell, he figured he was owed some respite from his usual self-restraint.

Seconds later David found himself blocked by a horde of people who had congregated at far left-hand corner of the room. He waited patiently as the voyeurs wearing raincoats and carrying still-wet umbrellas attempted to find seats, eventually coming face to face with an old friend by the name of Leo King.

‘Simba,’ whispered David. ‘What are you doing here?’

Leo ‘Simba’ King was an innocent-looking man with wide brown eyes and a clean-shaven face, his boyish appearance resulting in his namesake derived from the main character in Disney's
The Lion King
. King was also the FBI's highest ranking individual in the state of Massachusetts, which just went to show you could not judge a book by its cover: Special Agent in Charge King was one of the shrewdest federal investigators in the country.

‘I have to give evidence in a probable cause hearing upstairs,’ King returned, keeping his voice low. ‘Came down here to see if I could spot Mannix. Wanted to see if we could catch up.’

David nodded as he saw the back door open yet again, his mood slipping from bad to worse as he saw Daniel Hunt and his doctor friend move quickly into the room. Seconds later Hunt was followed by Joe Mannix and Frank McKay. The Walker case must be next up on the docket, he thought, which means it is definitely time for me to leave.

David tried to manoeuvre himself around King so that he could thread his way toward the door. But then to his surprise Hunt spotted him and diverted his course, heading directly toward him.
Shit.

‘No hard feelings,’ said Hunt as he stopped immediately in front of David and extended his right hand. David had no option but to take it, and Hunt followed through with a nod and a pat on David's left arm before rejoining his friend and heading straight up the middle aisle.

‘Since when did you have friends in high places?’ whispered Simba with a slight smile on his face.

‘He's not my friend.’ David wriggled uncomfortably, anxious to leave.

‘Why don't you stick around?’ continued Simba. ‘Maybe you, me and Mannix can grab a coffee once the circus pulls up its tent.’

‘Thanks for the offer, Simba, but I've seen enough of Katz's performances to last me a lifetime.’

Simba smiled once again as he twisted himself sideways in an attempt to let David pass, but now the area near the door was more jammed than ever and the judge was calling for order, which meant David had to inch his way out as quietly as possible.

‘Mr Katz,’ said Judge Weeks. David looked up to see the front side door open and two large Sheriff's Department deputies move slowly into the room, the small woman between them almost swallowed by the substantialness of their girth. And despite himself David shifted right to look at her – Sara's words about the tragedy of her circumstances reverberating in his ears.

‘I believe you represent the people in the matter of the Commonwealth versus Walker?’ Weeks continued as he peered directly down at the now-standing DA.

The entire room started buzzing as necks craned and spines were lengthened to take in the accused in their midst. David decided to make the most of the disruptive scuttlebutt to make his way toward the door.

‘Yes, Your Honor,’ David heard Katz reply. ‘Mrs Walker is charged with murder in the first degree, the victim being her nine-week-old baby daughter, Eliza Jane Walker. Obviously given the serious nature of the charge, and Mrs Walker's substantial means, we ask that Your Honor refuse bail and –’

‘Hold on there a minute, Mr Katz. Mrs Walker,’ Weeks continued, now addressing the defendant, ‘have you engaged legal counsel to speak on your behalf this morning?’

The room went silent as David stopped short once again, this time to take in the empty seat next to the accused.

‘No, Your Honor,’ said Walker, who was prompted by a bailiff to get to her feet before addressing the bench.

‘Do you wish to engage a public defender?’

‘No, Your Honor.’

‘Then perhaps you have engaged counsel but he or she could not be with you this morning?’ said an obviously perplexed Weeks. ‘Might this be the case?’ Weeks's raised eyebrows suggesting he was hoping for an answer in the positive.

‘Yes and no, Your Honor.’ Sienna Walker's voice was soft but clean, crisp. ‘I believe a defence attorney has been approached on my behalf, but I am waiting for confirmation … of his commitment.’

David caught his breath as his insides began to knot.

‘Who is this attorney, Mrs Walker?’ asked Weeks, just as David knew he would.

‘I believe his name is David Cavanaugh, Your Honor.’

‘Why, he was just here!’ The judge lifted his eyes above his bifocals. ‘In fact … Mr Cavanaugh,
is that you
?’

Every head in the room turned toward him, including Joe's and Frank's, Joe meeting his eye with an expression that said:
Jesus, what the hell?

‘Ah … yes, it's me, Your Honor,’ answered David.

‘Have you been approached by Mrs Walker?’

It was a difficult question to answer. ‘Not by Mrs Walker, Your Honor,’ he offered, not knowing what else to say.

‘What in god's name does that mean?’ asked Weeks.

‘It means I was approached by a friend of Mrs Walker, but at the time Mrs Walker had not been charged, and I told this person that I was not –’

‘Are you busy, Counsellor?’ asked Weeks.

‘I'm sorry?’

‘Your workload – are you swamped? I understand that you have the assault matter and so forth, but are there any more time-consuming Superior Court matters on your list at present?’

An increasingly frustrated David hesitated, his eyes flicking once again toward Joe. ‘Not at the moment, Judge,’ he said, resisting the urge to lie.

‘Then you are free to represent Mrs Walker.’

It was a statement, not a question. David felt his blood begin to boil.

‘Mrs Walker, are you happy to have Mr Cavanaugh as your counsel?’

‘Yes, Your Honor,’ she replied.

‘All right then.’ The judge turned back to David. ‘You have permission to get your ass back up here, Mr Cavanaugh. You have a plea to enter on your client's behalf.’

And so a now completely defeated David lifted his briefcase in front of his chest so that he might weave his way more easily in and out of the spectators around him. He reached the front of the room and glanced right for the briefest of seconds to see the unmistakable horror on Roger Katz's face, but it was no compensation.

‘I am David Cavanaugh,’ he said to Sienna Walker as he placed his briefcase on the familiar defence table as calmly as he could manage. And then he lifted his chin to look at her.

‘It is nice to meet you, Mr Cavanaugh,’ she whispered, her pale eyes meeting his. In all his years as a defence attorney, no one had ever looked at him in the way that Sienna Walker just had. Her expression betrayed her agony at the loss of her child and a fear at her own predicament, but her jaw was set, her teeth fixed together, which left the contradictory impression that this woman was stronger than she looked, and that she was determined to fight. And then she blinked, and all he saw was pure and utter sadness.

‘You need to enter a plea,’ he said, gathering his thoughts once again.

She nodded before whispering, ‘I did not kill my daughter.’

And so David turned toward the front of the room and entered a plea of ‘not guilty’, proclaiming his new client's innocence, for all the world to hear.

16

D
espite what everybody assumed, twenty-year-old Madonna Carrera was not named after the Blessed Virgin Mary. Not that this wasn't the natural assumption to make, given Madonna was the eldest of eight Carrera children in a family more Catholic than the Pope.

Madonna was in fact named after the singer, largely because her mother, Louisa, under that delicate wedding veil, had had a bun in her oven when no one in the family had suspected. And considering Louisa's favourite CD at the time was Madonna's
Immaculate Collection
– her favourite single on said CD being the 1984 masterpiece ‘Like a Virgin’ – and further considering the newlywed Louisa Carrera had a sense of humour more wicked than the devil himself, she felt it only fitting that her firstborn should be named after a woman she both admired and secretly aspired to be. Madonna liked Madonna. She liked her because she had spunk and determination and drive to get to the top. And just like her namesake, the younger Madonna looked at all of life's opportunities as a means to get ahead, this latest career situation being just that.

It was mid-morning and the waiting room was empty, but only because she had called to inform Dr Davenport's first patient that the doctor was running late. Madonna shifted in her seat and made the decision to put the tissue box in front of her at the back of the bottom drawer to her right. There was no way she was going to spend six whole weeks feeling like she was sitting at some neatness-obsessed old spinster's desk. Mrs Wallace was the elderly secretary slash nurse (the woman thought that a nursing degree bought her the right to lord it over every other secretary in the building) with the pole up her butt and the clothes that looked like they were made out of carpet who had just taken her way-overdue six weeks vacation and overtime leave.

Wallace had worked for the doctor for close to two years – and now that she was reportedly putting her feet up on the deck of some mind-numbingly boring geriatric cruise ship, Madonna, whose own boss Dr Macintosh was on some equally as dry sabbatical in Kansas City, had applied to fill in.

This was nice, thought Madonna as she sat back and scanned the waiting room around her. She had heard Dr Davenport had paid a fortune to some fancy interior decorator to come renovate his rooms and now that she was here, she had no doubt that the rumours were true. The abstract paintings on the walls were originals, the fabric on the chairs plush, the carpet was thick, the piped music contemporary and, more importantly, the magazines were interesting and current which, as far as Madonna was concerned, was the number one sign of a good physician – straight up.

And Dr Davenport was a good physician, no doubt about that. Everybody in this Beacon Hill surgery – the four-storey, red-brick, flower-boxed Charles Street building housed five specialists in total, all charging their patients astronomical fees the moment that they walked in the door – thought they were pretty good, but Dr Davenport thought he was better, and Madonna had no doubt he was right.

During Madonna's interview for this temporary position, Dr Davenport had made it very clear that his patients were not patients but ‘clients’, that they were paying a lot of money for his ‘services’, and that they deserved a ‘big bang for their buck’ – a figure of speech that left all sorts of wonderful images in Madonna's mind, most of them to do with banging the man before her on a bed of crisp one hundred dollar bills. He went on to talk about his determination to make his clients feel comfortable, cared for – and basically bursting to come back for more.

‘Why would they want to come back if you've cured them?’ Madonna asked, hoping her question sounded appropriately inquisitive.

Davenport smiled. ‘My clients are not sick, Madonna, they are merely limited in their options, and we need to think of ourselves as people who can expand the possibilities available to them.’

‘They want to have kids and they can't.’

‘Not exactly, but close. These are people who can afford to be choosy, their circumstances have seen to that. And we are here to assure them that they have come to the best – and that their needs will be met above and beyond their expectations, and that all business entered into will be conducted with the utmost of discretion.’

‘Business,’ Madonna said with a smile, pleased that she was catching on. ‘The baby business.’

‘No, the reproduction business.’ Another smile. ‘There's a difference.’

Madonna had nodded as if she knew exactly what the doctor was telling her, when in all honesty, she had no clue. Not that any of that mattered, because Madonna was here, and the working conditions were awesome, and her boss was a god, and their clients were rich, and her salary would close to double in the six weeks of bliss that lay ahead.

And so it was no wonder that as the first clients entered through the clean, white-painted door, and as Madonna smiled pleasantly while explaining the doctor was running a little late, and as she offered them a coffee and handed them the latest
Vogue Living
and
GQ
, she offered a silent prayer to her namesake – the virgin, not the entertainer – that Mrs Wallace's cruise ship would do a
Titanic
and end up lying peacefully, unreachably, on the sandy Atlantic floor.